


Insurgent

by 1V1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU: Fallen Avengers, Characters Added As They Appear - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forced Servitude, No Beta, Opinionated Reader, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader is Magic Sensitive, Slow Burn, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but thats it, loki won
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 14:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12234681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1V1/pseuds/1V1
Summary: You honestly don't think very highly of 'Midgard's' new 'King'. You find him to be lacking at best, monstrous at worst. But so far, you've managed to make it out of the 'Unification' fairly okay. At least until you open your big mouth at a rally where someone spots you, and the potential you have for serving something greater. Someone greater.Set in an AU where the Avengers lost, Loki rules earth, and a fair bit of time has past. Will eventually cover the MCU timeline and events therein.





	1. A Dark Stranger the King

“Gods don’t exist.” You say to yourself. He might be speaking right in front of you in the stadium, but you can’t be assed to care. You’re nothing but another face, one of over several thousand in a crowd gathered for a mandatory speech by your new ‘King’ of ‘Midgard’.  
“We made the gods. We gave them power over us. Now he says he’s got all the power. What a fucking joke.” You say, bitterness in your words spoken under hushed breath. You knew if caught, someone might hear and sell you out. It was a new hobby among people. Sell out any dissent, get some extra food stamps or supplies, and they get carted off to who fucking knew where. All that was the same was they never came back.  
“He’s just a man. He lives, he eats, he shits, he dies. That’s how it goes isn’t it?” The voice next to you is new, and it draw a sudden fear in your gut. Overheard. A mistake you let your hate for the conqueror be said out loud. But as you turn your head your face meets one that’s amused, if a bit indifferent.   
You swallow, the man’s long angular face hold a bit of waning curiosity the longer you remain quiet. He looks nothing like the ‘God’ who took over your world. This man is in his 50s, grey hairs at his temple, blue eyes and a full beard. He could be anyone’s father with his button up coat and jeans.  
“Something like that.” You answer him. He smirks, and you elaborate at his request.  
“People create thing to explain what we don’t understand. We did it to explain the sun, the moon and stars. To explain how plants changed and grew. Animals existed. We existed. Each time when we discovered the truth, people don’t want to hear it because they’re afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of what they can’t still explain. That’s why people followed him after all that shit in New York. Because they can’t understand how we lost and they need an explanation. He offers it. We’re afraid of all these new unknowns. How we’re not alone in the universe. How our own self absorbed egos couldn’t fathom that we’re the lesser species, and we lost.” You sneer as you look at the man in the center of the stadium, horned helm glittering in the midday light and scepter lifted as he spoke of creating a new age, a utopia.

The man behind you hums in agreement before offering his own thoughts.  
“Still, he managed to unify the world. He says he wants to make it better. Even you have to admit, he’s not wrong. Earth wasn’t exactly great to begin with, and having a single leader might actually expedite our evolutionary progress. It’s been over a year, and well-” The man shrugs.  
“People aren’t starving, lives are getting better. For a self anointed god of lies, he’s been more truthful than most politicians. He might be good for us, evolutionarily speaking.”  
“Might.” You’re quick to reply.  
“Sadly we run into the same problem as before. Humans don’t work like that, our natures don’t allow an easy transition. We evolved to fear and our deep social conditioning is a part of how we survive. Our progress evolutionarily speaking is in our advantage that we can be opportunists. It will be generations before you’d manage to condition societies to be one society with a collective progressive mindset. Not for a lack of trying, but just for the fact we didn’t evolve with such an ability with an ease of use.”  
“You think about the human condition a lot miss?” The man is entertaining your rant, your venting, and you don’t care anymore, turning away from the so called God as people clap and cheer. Most, with a strange enthusiasm. 

You look at the crowd and frown.  
“I didn’t have to. But then I was told Gods were real, shown one made of flesh and blood, and I tasted the same lie I was fed as a child. There are no Gods. Just people.”

The man looks at you then to the god, who slams his scepter into the ground and vanishes in a cloud of gold dust. The man smiles and offers his name.  
“Doyle Elroy.” He smiles and offers to shake his hand. His grip is firm, but he doesn’t squeeze or move your arm in a test of masculinity common with some men.  
You give him your name and walk out of the stadium together, commenting on how annoying it is that everyone has to miss work and an entire day of their lives just to entertain their so called king’s speech.

“The only King’s speech I think I can stand is the movie. That at least was historic. All this is just grandstanding, and a total waste of gas money.” Doyle laughs and it sounds younger, lighter.  
“I’ve not seen that movie. Is it good?”  
“I think so. It’s a historic drama and pretty well done at that. No bells and whistles really outside of good directing and acting. If you like history and dramas you’d be into it, otherwise its just a decent film.”  
“Sounds interesting.”  
“Like I said, it all depends on what you like.” He hum as you reach the gates of the stadium, slowly filing out one by one.  
“It was nice meeting you, even if all I did was rant.” He laughs again, and you get the feeling he’s just kind of beside himself with the situation as much as you are.  
“It’s kind of refreshing to be honest. Not many people put as much thought into why they hate the guy.”

You pause as you stop walking to look at him.  
“I don’t hate him. I don’t know him, so as a person I can’t hate him. But the rest? I hate how he thinks he has all the answers to our problems, how he can solve them and make things better and how people buy into how he’s a God. It’s a lie, and a bad one. He’s smart enough to manage to conquer a planet for fuck’s sake without killing the majority of it and manage to unify it in under a year. I mean- The guy’s a damn tactical genius, but he’s not human. And only humans are going to be able to fix human problems.”  
Doyle seems shocked as you give a shrug.  
“He’s not a god. At the very least, if he’s going to call himself a God of Lies, he really ought to try harder on selling it while contradicting it.” Doyle looks at you, and that feeling you had when he showed up behind you creeps up again, like he’s analyzing you.

“You talk a lot.”  
“I have a lot to say.”  
“So what then do you feel for our esteemed leader?”  
The question hangs in the air and for a moment you’re unsure how to answer. But, the moment passes and you shrug once more.  
“He’s a guy who wants to be our king and is only doing what he thinks is best to that goal.”  
Doyle lets out a derisive snort.  
“That’s not a feeling.”  
“It is, I just don’t have a better word for it.” Nearby women giggle, wearing shirts with the ruler’s name on them. Doyle sees you look at them with a roll of your eyes.  
“You at least think he’s attractive?” Doyle asks, smirking, playing at your distaste for the women wear the green and gold lettered attire.  
You chuckle and smile. “Sure, but I also think too much on the human condition so I dunno what that says about me in general.”

Doyle’s smirk widens into a full mouth grin as he walks closer to you and bends just enough so he’s making clear eye contact with you, that he is in your space. He was not so tall moments ago and there is a taste in your mouth. Empty and unsatisfying. You can’t place it but it feels heavy and keeps you silent.

“Well, good to know at least you find some part of me appealing.” His eyes flash green, and when you blink, you’re standing alone in a crowd exiting the stadium.

Fear rockets into you, and you wonder what has happened. No one else is reacting, and for a moment you sway unsteadily on your feet.   
The moment passes.  
You realize that either you just spoke to the very man you were criticizing and belittling, or maybe you were hallucinating. You swallow that taste in your mouth down, you bite back the fear and apprehension. If it was, he might hunt you down and kill you for sport, make a spectacle of you. He might do nothing at all.

The unknown is what people fear. You even told him as much. Yet you manage to get to your car, drive home to your modest studio apartment you can barely afford and think on it. You change clothes, trading in fashionable skirt for jeans, leaving your top as is in case you want to go out again. The pants are just because you don’t like sitting on the couch legs apart in a skirt. Your dog Richard, in his old age, just lays in the sun of the patio, tail thumping against the floor as he hears you move about.

No matter if Doyle was real or not, you are human and you know you have been made to be afraid. So naturally, you do the only thing you can given the situation.  
You go to your fridge, grab the milk, make yourself a bowl of cheap off brand raisin bran crunch and put on a documentary of the amazonian river. If something happens it will happen. If not, then life will carry on as life will.

Two hours later a knock on the door. It’s the ‘peacekeeping’ task force, and they’ve come to escort you for questioning. Just a day trip they say, but you stare them down and ask if it will possibly be overnight. As they shuffle and admit you might be held later so you say ‘fine’ but request a few minutes to see that your dog is taken care of.   
“If you end up making me vanish forever, I’d rather he be taken care of and not just left behind. He deserves to be happy and not abandoned because I made a mistake.” The men say nothing, and you feel nothing as you make arrangements for a friend to come by, to house Richard and home him. You friend always did love dogs, and Richard really is a sweet old boy.

You’re just glad you had the foresight to change into jeans and eat before they take you away, the fear of the unknown no longer looming so much in the back of your mind.


	2. Screening

The ride was not long in your mind. Maybe three to four hours. But, you also had slept for maybe a few hours too, napping in the back of the van with it’s blacked out windows, your blindfold and earplugs preventing you from being able to know anything save the swaying of the car and the bumps in the road. Part of you knows this is cliché and pointless. You’ll be killed or whatever it is they do to dissenters soon enough. It’s not like you’re going home ever again. And even in the miracle you did, it’s been hours so how they expected you to know where they were going was just plain stupid.

When the van finally stops, and the men grab your arm you do your best not to jump, asking in the most polite voice that you can to give you a second, your legs are a bit stiff but you can walk just fine, please just help you step out of the vehicle. You force yourself to remain calm, to not panic even though you are. Everything is uncertain, and worse, not being able to see, to hear, it sending your tactile senses into overdrive. The moment you step out of the van, that taste of emptiness is back. Somethings hangs in the air like a blanket and you smell the city. Wherever you are it’s densely populated, and nearby somebody has a diesel engine running. You cough then politely apologize.  
A hand at your elbow, a man guides your walk into a building the texture of the ground going from cement to tile. You can feel it from under the soles of your shoes. Inside you smell a metal tang, a sharp citrus note of cleaner. It’s maybe a receptionist’s area? You don’t ponder it long as the man leading you gives a small tug. You feel a small sense of gratefulness that he’s not rougher with you. Maybe being non-resistant is working in your favor. Granted, you’ll probably be dead this time tomorrow but hey, less suffering the better right.

The next space you enter is bright. Bright enough little patches of light managed to get past the blindfold, a welcome thing even though your eyes squint behind the cloth. Around you, you feel the armored escort circle you in, heat radiating off of them and their thick Kevlar suits. It smells like body odor now, and it makes your mouth fight down a small scowl. Someone is wearing a heavy spray of what you recognize as axe and it makes it harder to not scowl. Boys in high school wore axe body spray, not grown men. The other scents are just masculine, sweat, dirt, note man smells like the ocean and it’s the least offensive. He’s behind you somewhere. The floor lurches and you feel your blood move with what you can only assume is an elevator. You guess, due to the way your body feels, you went up. But you’ve never been on any freefall rides or sensory deprived like this before so hey, maybe you went down. It’s anybody’s guess.

Escorted off the elevator, the hallway has a cozier smell. You guess it’s a hallway anyway, the echo only moves forward, not all around. It smells like wood smoke, ashy and sharp. Not entirely unpleasant but it gives a homey feel. The scent gets stronger for a while then fades away, leaving behind only the smell of the men escorting you and that metal and lemon cleaner scent. You can feel the thud of the boots behind you, marching along in perfect orderly harmony and you notice, the man who’s been guiding you this entire time tightens his grip just a fraction. You and your little merry band of ‘law’ enforcement stop for a moment before entering a new room. The tile is replaced by something else. Cement? Stone? It’s hard and untextured leaving you to guess.

You’re sat down in a solid metal chair, one hand cuffed to the armrest, your legs following suit. Why they leave you dominant hand and arm free is a mystery to you, but slowly, the blindfold is removed along with the earplugs. It hurts, both the rush of hard white yellow light and the vast loudness of the men working around you. The room itself smells of some kind of incense you realize, earthy, it removes the hard lemon chemical cleaner and scent of metal behind. As your vision begins to restore itself, light no longer making it a blurred haze, details pour in, mind desperate for something, anything tangible. You breathe through your mouth and taste something sweet as you finally see the room for what it is.

It's a throne room. One of many that have been shown from the assorted Televised newscasts in the past year. They all look the same on TV, but this one you notice has plants growing in various pots and you look for the source of the honey taste in the air. The smell isn’t there but the taste was, and you notice an assortment of pastries placed in a bowl next to the gilded gold throne on the raise dias. The room must have at one point been a corporate office, the large windows behind offering a skyline view of the city. The only thing is now they are windowless, yet up here, you can’t smell the city, just that earthy smell you realize must be from the plants. The gold and green theme is predominant, contrasting with what you assume is white marble. Looking down at your feet, you try not to think of the dark charcoal mark just in front of you.

For now, the throne is empty, and you are alone with the exception of the men who brought you here. They say nothing, and when you catch one of their eyes, they seem just as perturbed as you do. Either this is unusual, or, they have their own reservations about serving a mad tyrant God-king who’s just an alien with a fancy staff.  
You want to ask questions but as you open your mouth, you close it. There isn’t much a point aside from being able to state the obvious. You’re chained to a metal chair save your dominant arm and hand. You’re in a throne room that overlooks some metro city you can’t identify or say for sure given the proximity of several metro areas you could have been driven to. The King isn’t around, the pastries in the stupid bowl are making you realize its been hours since you ate or drank anything, and you should probably consider yourself lucky you went to the bathroom before your impromptu imprisonment and future death.

You could go with a drink of water but, what point would there be for that? As you wet your lips, that heavy empty taste fills your mouth, and you swallow dryly, the thought of water suddenly more than appealing. Besides, you rationalize. You have one hand free, your throat is dry, you’re going to die, the worst you can do is ask and have them say no.  
“I know it’s dumb given I’m probably going to die, but could I get a small cup of water? My throat feels like sandpaper.” It’s the truth and one man chuckles, leaving the room. The others just fix their gaze at the left side of the dias. You guess the king will be here soon. Or maybe some representative.

A few minutes of silence and waiting. The man who left before returns, handing you a small paper cup with water and you smile at him, genuinely thanking him for it before greedily drinking it down. It soothes your throat and clears the taste of nothingness from your mouth. The man just smiled sadly at you before returning to his station.

A few more minutes pass before the echo of a door clicking open from the left is heard, and all the men in the room shuffle to stand at attention. You just avoid looking. Your heart is pounding and the sudden weight and fear of the situation hits you. You’re going to die. The click of heels doesn’t register with you until the voice of a woman does.

“Miss?” You let your eyes drift up afraid who you will see. Her red hair is even brighter in person, and she looks almost motherly in her eyes and smile. Pepper Pots. Once the CEO of Stark Industries, now one of the King’s advisors. The rumor had been that when the King had convinced Stark to defect and join him, Pepper Pots had as well, acting as a liaison between the King and various global leaders. The fact that Tony Stark, Avenger, had chosen an alien over his own people made many call him a traitor. To you, he’d just been doing what he knew best. Be a man of science and innovation, and an alien certainly offered a bit of science. And probably a way that didn’t end with Stark becoming a crushed metal smear.

“Sorry. I was just kind of thinking.” You reply, trying not to sound afraid.  
“It’s alright. I just need to confirm a few things. Now, is it true that yesterday you attended the King’s bi-monthly speech at your selected regional location?”  
“Yes.” The fact it was Pepper Pots asking you, interviewing you, no, -interrogating you- sets a horrible pit in your stomach. Either the king was going to be handing down your fate personally, or, the kind looking Miss Pots was going to be doing it in his stead. Advisors as close to the King as Miss Pots certainly had that kind of power right?  
“Okay, now, according to this, you spoke openly about your hate of the king-“  
“Distaste.” You don’t know why you chose to correct her, but regardless she stops, waiting for you to continue.  
“I never said I hated him. I was talking to myself about the ironies of how humans worships Gods when we as a species created Gods.” Pepper’s eyebrow raises in question.  
“I’m sorry Miss Pots. But if I’m going to be put on trial or killed for voicing dissent or treason, I’d at least like to be honest about what I said. But, later on, yes, I spoke critically of the King’s actions and his apparent views on humans in general.”  
“Oh.” Was her only reply before she wrote something down on her clipboard. Her pen scratching echoing somehow in the open-air room.  
“Now Miss, is it also true you have been harboring these feelings for a while?” Your shoulders slump in defeat.  
“Since… A little after Paris I think? I hadn’t really started thinking about the whole situation until after the battle of New York. It was too fresh then. Up until Paris, I was like most, just scared.” Paris, when the King had appeared before the UN with terms for surrender.

“Alright, now, if you don’t mind, who else do you know that has been vocal of their hate of the king?” At that you frown. You knew people sure, but you weren’t about to condemn them to death. Torture might get it from you, but hell, you weren’t the type to just bend over of give them up.  
“That’s their business.” You offer up, a bitter smile of knowing you’ve probably just made your fate infinitely worse.  
“I can’t say if they hate the king or were just heated because they needed something to blame for a bad day. So in full honesty, I can’t say.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t a whole truth either. It was the most you’d give.  
Pots wasn’t buying it, her face twisting to a look of pity and annoyance.  
“Miss, if you do not co-operate, you will be forced to.”  
“I understand Miss Pots. I know that by not giving names it means you might torture it them from me and-“ you shake in your seat for a moment terror racing up your back, “-I’m okay with that. No matter how I answer, we both know that I’m never going home. That I’ll probably be dead soon. But I can’t say I know what others think in _full certainty_ , only assume. All I know is that from what I have heard, it’s just been people being people. Just like how we used to criticize the president, now we do it to the king. That’s not hate, that’s just general politics. Everybody is critical their leader on some level.” You shake your head.

She says nothing for a beat then- “You purposely avoid saying hate.”  
“Hate implies and typically connotes that it’s personal. It’s hard to be personal when you don’t know a person.”  
“That’s an odd way to look at things.”  
“It’s a flaw, I think too much, talk too much. Just why I’m here though I guess. I said just now that I can’t say who’s been vocal in their hate of the king, but, it’s been my assumptions of said king’s thoughts and actions that got me here.”  
The irony is not lost on you. Pots looks at you, then her expression changes suddenly, brightening.  
“Well, I am glad we had this talk. You did clear up a few things and oh hm. There are a few more questions if you don’t mind?”  
You look at her, giving her your best smile, even if half hearted.  
“Sure. I mean, I guess I can afford to free up _some_ of my time.” Your joke brings a certain lightness to her eyes. It’s nice. She looks like someone you could maybe have liked to talked to under different circumstances.  
“Perfect, now. What was the name of the man you spoke with at the King’s speech?”  
“Doyle Elroy.” No sense in lying, you are now wondering why the impersonal inquiries.  
“Not protecting him?”  
“My guess is you already know who he is, and I have a hunch trying to would be a wasted effort, if not entirely pointless.”  
“Fair enough. Now, what do you remember of the speech itself?” That took a moment. You’d hardly been paying attention but you do remember enough.  
“The King was going on about the changes in childcare and early education. He wanted to expand their horizons, have them learn fact not fiction, expose them early on to the knowledge and history of the Nine Realms.” She wrote more notes down.  
“Alright, what else?”  
“Wakanda’s king passed away.” Your frown was back. “He expressed his sadness over this, but was also wanting to let us know his son had taken the throne and was looking forward to helping the people of Midgard become the Kingdom the Nine Realms would be in awe of. Something like that.” More notes, she motioned for you to continue with her pen.  
“After that he went on about how he planned to make things better across the globe, for us Midgardians. More or less the same as his usual speeches. Only thing otherwise different was that he said that soon, we’d have ‘our’ Bifrost ready. And if we go by mythos, that means interplanetary, or well, I guess inter-realm travel. Sorry, anytime people have talked about the more alien slash myth stuff no one has been really certain so it’s pretty much been speculation.”  
“Care to elaborate?”  
You do, telling Pots how most people can’t separate myth from reality often with the king’s verbiage, and also, given the secrecy of some projects, most just make assumptions.  
“What do you think the Bifrost is?” Pot’s question is entirely separate from the events at the stadium, and you wonder why the sudden interest.  
“It’s a method of travel. The verbiage lends to it, and given how the king uses terms like Midgard for Earth, or Terra, it would be very out of character for him to call something out as being near complete without it being something widely significant globally.”  
She writes more, her pen clicking with a smile.  
“One last thing, what was, in your opinion, the best part of the King’s speech.”

You smile at her, thinking back to how you’d joked and thought nothing of it.  
“Well, personally, I thought Colin Firth was great, if not nearly perfect in the roll, but what killed it for me was the acting and directing. The emotions they captured were perfectly pointed and made you really grasp the feel and gravitas of the situation surrounding the second world war and the scandal with his brother. Overall, a solid nine of ten.”  
Pot’s smile practically lit up before she laughed for a moment, looking a bit relieved. But her eyes widened as another question came out.  
“But you didn’t say what exactly was the best.”  
You laugh a bit yourself. “Only one thing then? Okay. The costumes.”  
“Costumes?” Pots looks almost like she’s going to choke on her own laughter.  
“Yeah. The detail put into them was spot on. Right down to the medals on George’s coat. You have to appreciate the little details like that when looking at the big picture. It means the one in charge cares a hell of a lot, and they’re willing to go the extra mile.”

“Now that is a sentiment I think we can both agree on. But, my favorite part of the movie was the interactions between the two men. It was as you said, very well done.” His voice is different in person. The speeches are all done with magic, and all of them are enhanced to be heard. In person his voice is so much more human, more natural. It’s smooth,accented and hint to something dangerous, like a comforting lull to make you lower your defenses. You entire body goes rigid as you see him stride into the room, the smile on his face the same one you saw that brief moment before he’d vanished. Pots nods at him and winks at you before briskly leaving the same way the king entered. The men you’d forgotten up until know all salute and stomp their boots. The empty taste is back on your tongue and when you meet his gaze you see him as he sees you.

“Hello, my little philosopher. I think you and I are due for a little chat don’t you?” He sits down and watches how you begin to tremble in fear, how your mouth seals shut, you swallow down saliva and remain frozen staring at him. He sits in his throne, legs spread open, the iconic gold helm missing and replaced by a thin gold band. The ornate green, black, and gold battle armor is gone, something it’s equal but less ornate covers him but it is no less impressive. The message he wants to send is clear. You aren’t worth formalities, but he is king. He is the one in charge and in power and you should be cowed.

His smile was predatory as he looked down at you.  
“Still think me attractive?” His voice glides over your skin, and you’re aware how cold the room is. Rather, you were aware, but now feeling vulnerable and afraid, all your senses are heightened again and this time, his voice seems intent to make you notice everything you wanted to ignore until now.  
Your mouth opens, then closes. His gaze is expectant for a beat.  
“You know the answer to that already.”  
“Humor me.” He waves a hand dismissively at you before raising the other so he can lean on it.  
“Yes.” Green eyes narrow and he wets his own lips, a strangely human motion that makes you swallow. He’s unpredictable and well known to be a cruel man when it suited him, just as he’s equally known to be fickle and rather vain.  
“Good.” He says, “Now, let’s pick up where our conversation left off.” He leans back, legs spread, looking less the regal King and more the thinking man.

“Tell me how to become the king you need.”


	3. Interview

You stare at him in silence, uncertain you heard him correctly or if you’re in some really fucked up dream created by your subconscious as a method of trying to rationalize the day’s events. You wish it was a dream, at worst that just meant you passed out on the couch. If this was real, you had no idea what was going on anymore because nothing you heard of the king could have made you even fathom this.  
“What?” You sound as dumbfounded as you look, and the king’s smile doesn’t fade, he just chuckles as he repeats himself, this time wish insistence.  
You stare at him still before you find your voice.  
“Well, not chaining them to chairs would be a decent start.” He blinks before his laughter booms, echoing across the room shocking you and the men behind you. His hand is waved and, magically, (of course), the cuffs on you are gone, leaving you free in a metal chair, facing the man who called himself king of earth, (Midgard actually).  
“A smart mouth, perhaps a bit impetuous, but good.” His eyes relax and his voice lets out a deep hum. “Good.”

He waits for you to relax a fraction before addressing the question once more, this time, sans jokes and polite requests.  
“Uh, honestly your um, highness,” you look at him making sure this is the proper address to use for him, and with a nod of his head, you have your answer, “that’s not exactly a question I can answer in a simple way. You’ve got a lot to consider and it really depends on what problem you’d want to address or consider a priority. If you want a basic generalization- humans, or rather Midgardians as you call us, aren’t like Asgardians. I mean, from the way you speak down to the way you treat and view us and our world, it’s fairly clear that the differences are far beyond basic technological advancement or genetic superiority or inferiority, and okay that’s it’s own bucket of worms, but, frankly? You don’t understand humanity, and so you trying to rule a race that is so entrenched in it is at best, like fumbling in the dark.” The King looked mildly annoyed but seems like he’s listening if in a sort of ‘I think you are wrong and I know better but I will humor listening to you anyways’.

“Humans value their independence, their personal selves and freedoms. In the few places where it’s been removed due to indoctrinating, you see less growth if any at all. You see stagnation, suffering, and a general lack of creativity. I understand the concept of that whole ‘freedom is humanity’s greatest lie’ from an empirical view, but from a practical and logical view of the human race, its just not a workable model if you intend to have us progress and develop as both a world and as a race. So starting out of the gate, you want to be, need to be, more understanding that while you’re handling problems on a fairly decent level, the underlying problems, such as those that effect socio-economics, racial politics, civil rights- all those things tie right into our humanity, our freedoms, our need and craving for self-control and independence. You want to know how to be the king we need, you’ve got to start trying to understand us before going around ruling us.”

The King is not happy with your drawn out answer.  
“So, you think I do not understand you Midgardians on a more-“ he draws in a long loud breath before exhaling it, “-intimate level?” The way he said it was strange, like he was no longer sure he understood the whole notion, that he had overlooked something.

“I guess? You’re taking to somebody you literally pulled off the street. I don’t understand why you don’t ask people who’ve studied these things and-“  
“Because they tell me what I wish to hear, what they see and think they know from the views of those who are privileged enough to afford your so called ‘educations’.” Apparently not even college impressed the King.

“To understand a people, you must ask the people.”  
“Soooo you kidnap them and kill them?” His gaze, which had drifted away, snaps back to you with surprising swiftness and fury.  
“Is _that_ what you Midgardians think I do?” His smooth voice is hard and firm- his anger at the accusation is palatable.  
You just can’t bother keeping your mouth shut. It’s your fate too anyway, might as well make it count.  
“Well, everyone who’s been caught voicing dissent tends to vanish overnight. Nobody sees them return. Their homes get ransacked, apartments kicking them out and selling their things, relatives holding funerals and police not saying anything? Yeah, sure, totally doesn’t look like it’s a dystopian tyrannical ruler killing any who even show a smidge of malcontent.” Your eyes roll, his narrow.  
“Is that what you think me as? Not a king but a Tyrant?” His languid posture is gone, now sits before you is a real king. Straight backed, arms on the armrests, jaw set and eyes focused.

“You haven’t clarified if you do have them killed your highness. What do you think people will say when those people don’t ever go home, when they vanish? For fuck’s sake, I asked for some extra time so I could make sure my dog went to a friend and would be taken care of. Once you don’t hear what I have to say and you realize how much you don’t like what I’m saying, you’ll have me killed off.” Or worse now probably.  
Loki made another face, as if you’ve personally insulted his casserole dish at the local cal-de-sac BBQ.  
“Those that voice their anger or dissent are sent to selected schools to be educated on a subject of their choosing. Medical, financial, legal, or scientific. They refuse my rule so I have them attend schooling to broaden their horizons. To become a proper contributing member to your primitive spec-“  
“See! That’s exactly why you’re not liked, why no one can even begin to trust you. Why can’t those you’ve taken call home, get their things? You just called us primitive. You denounce our knowledge but turn around and are claiming you send people off to be educated into submission? That’s- God!”

The King’s eyes are wide, like he didn’t expect your outburst. Probably not. But the look vanishes quickly, and is replaced with consideration.  
“Sentiment is distraction. I-“  
“Sentiment gives things meaning, it drive people forward. Taking people from their homes and erasing them makes us afraid, fear isn’t the way to rule us.”  
“Sentiment is a weakness.”  
“For you, but not for us, not for humans.” You wish the man would hear your words, not just listen to them.

“You ask how to be the king _I_ need? Then stop listening and start _hearing_ me. Look at the world through the eyes of someone like me, a woman who you don’t know past the fact I have no filter, an apparent death wish, and has made you pissed, what three times now? You want to be _MY_ King? Then stop trying to gloss over what I’m saying and hear what I am telling you. You need to understand us before you’ll ever begin to rule us.”

You feel like crying. This man terrifies you, you’re going to die, and he has the audacity to act like you’re in the wrong for daring to challenge him.

“I don’t understand. You ask me like you care, but then act like nothing I say matters. You’re worse than an abusive ex.”  
Your head falls into your hands, a silent crying welling inside of you. You will die for lack of a better term. The King is a God of Lies. You probably will be killed.

You want your home. Your dog. Your family. Your friends. Your life. You want everything to go back to the way it was, to what it used to before the King came and conquered your world.

Silence pervades in the room before you hear him again, his tone softer, gentler, as if it’s finally dawned on him that you’re in no fit emotional state.

“Look at me.” You don’t for a moment, but when you look up, his face is a hint softer, and also, if you had to guess, slightly curious.

“I have no plans to kill you. If I did, I would have done so long ago. That being said-“ He stands and descends the dias, and your heart begins to race. He’s walking to you and he stops in front of you and your chair.  
“Where do you think I am, right now? In this room?” Is this some game? You snort back tears to stop them from falling as you answer.  
“Not in front of me. You haven’t been since we first started talking.” You couldn’t place how you knew, just that he wasn’t. He wouldn’t bother asking such a question unless-  
You head moved up and there is a mirth in his eyes, the same mirth at the stadium.  
Immediately you spin around looking at the men. Your gaze flicks back to him and your stand up suddenly wondering if this is what he wanted, to test you. Find out where he was in the room?

“Well? Do you have an answer?” You walk towards the men, all of who seem perplexed as you feel and ask you pass them, nothing seems too off. Not until you pass the man who got you water. The empty taste in your mouth is suddenly there again, and now, you can’t help it, you look at the man and realize unlike the others, smelling of axe, of body odor, dirt and grime, he smells like the ocean. Crisp, salty and clean.  
“Is this a joke?” You challenge him. Why ask this? Why make this into some sort of test.  
His voice comes from what you know must be an illusion behind you, the man in front of you slowly smiling. “Sedir is not intuitive to most Midgardian, but a few are sensitive to it. The question I have now, is how you could see past _my,_ sedir.” The word was one of his alien ones, but it was used often enough to know that he was referring to what you and others called magic.

You think before speaking as the illusion of the man melted away, the King is now standing before you, (you try to ignore the idea he’d been with you from the start. Seen your home, escorted you here, gotten you water of all things).  
“The taste in my mouth. It’s dry, like someone shoved cotton in there like at the dentist. Tasteless but not? It’s weird. But why-“ 

His hand touches your face and you tense, afraid as he leans over you green eyes bearing down into your own with a concerning intensity. 

“I need help little one, to as you say, become the King you need. To understand you Midgardians and your humanity and what’s more?” Cool hands cup your face.  
“I need someone who has seen past sedir and lies to find the truth of the uprisings. Someone who can be what I cannot be. I need a spy and you little one? You fit the bill _perfectly_.” 


End file.
